Tales from the Wasteland
by A Wee Bit Insane
Summary: Five short stories, told by five NPCs. First - person perspective, rather dark. Titles taken from 'The Wasteland' by T.S. Eliot.
1. A Moment's Surrender

Authors Note: So, some more serious stories this time... please, let me know what you think. By the way, I do not own Baldur's Gate, nor I claim to.

A Moment's Surrender

_"My friend, blood shaking my heart_

_The awful daring of a moment's surrender_

_ Which an age of prudence can never retract_

_ By this, and this only, we have existed"_

_  
T.S. Eliot, 'The Wasteland'_

Murderer.  
I thought this memory will haunt me. Torment me. Sentence me to madness, like a judge sentences a criminal to gallows. None of these things happened. Instead, the deed became a word, a sound that holds no meaning.  
Murderer, sinner, fallen. All sounds, like the clang of a sword, a whisper, a song. Nothing more.  
Death just means someone is no longer there. Moira, Surayah. I have two sisters now, both bond by blood. They hold hands, they smile. They wait for me, home. I will return, someday. Won't we all?  
When they said I was not worthy, Faerun did not collapse. The world did not end: no thunderstorms to express the ire of Helm, no lightnings to end my existence. It was mine own world what was shattered to pieces. Here, the rivers turned to blood, light to darkness, all living beings were struck by leprosy... the wrath of gods. In Faerun, everything stayed as it was. It was just mine world shattered. It was just mine... and Saerk's.  
To let one live out of spite, not pity... I never deemed such thing would be possible.  
He grieves her, now. Her wake must be grand and rich: a mourning parade marching down the Bridge District, heading to the Cemetery. The women lament loudly, as the southern customs require, the priests sing their wailing chants, the little boys rattling their drums in a slow, ceremonial rhythm, the flowers, blooming and colorful, serving as the young girl's last adornment. Her corpse is clean and sewn: no one would guess where my sword fell. She is dressed in her finest silks, decorated with gold and diamonds, as beautiful as a bride: for death found her earlier than marriage. So she shall be, her charms never taken, her skin never marked by wrinkles. So she shall be.  
Her father restrains himself from crying, yet, is inches away from breaking down. His friends approach him, one by one. "Will of the Gods", says one. "This too shall pass", says the other. He does not answer. For him, too, words hold no meaning. The others do not understand, may they never understand. The only one who knows his loss and grief... is the one who caused it.  
Myself.  
I had not thought that shedding blood may mean loosing a battle. It always meant victory and bravery. First blood, the knight would announce, and the squire who spilled it would be the one who won. A better warrior. The Kara - Turians say that every battle means fighting not oneself. If they are right, I lost, I gave up, I surrendered. There was no turning back, no forgiveness, no redemption. It takes great courage to set the first step on such way. No one ever told me that choosing what they call evil requires bravery.  
Surayah. Her death set me free. My sword cut her, and cut the ties that bound.  
I am alive.  
She smiles at me from the dark, her silent laughter echoes through the dungeons, her figers touch my arm. She sits by the fire, between me and the tiefling, yet, I know that the bard shall never see her. Surayah is here for me. You are so strong, brother, she whispers, pointing the wound beneath her breast, following the line of my cut. She smiles. The dead always smile. Sometimes, Moira joins her. They are making wreaths, laughing. Singing, and suddenly I know that these songs will follow me whenever I shall go.  
Freedom comes with a price.  
"This too shall pass", they say. It is a lie. It shall not. Do not fear, sisters. I will return soon, to dwell in our home in the ground. I will return...


	2. I Will Show You Fear

I Will Show You Fear

_"(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),_

_And I will show you something different from either_

_Your shadow at morning striding behind you_

_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_

_I will show you fear in a handful of dust."_

T.S Eliot, "The Wasteland"

I feel so cold.  
I am shivering. A leaf in the gale, a spiders web in the wind. Nothing warm here. Cold is the marble, the stone... the knives. Cold is the glass. Cold is what lies behind the glass, cold and dead.  
Nothing living here. Only Him, with his face motionless, his eyes unable to express any feelings - for he has none.  
"How can you?", I asked when he cut me. And it was not about Khalid nor Dynaheir, not about myself, not about the tortures. No. What I wanted to know, was how could he do such things without any hatred. Without any pleasure taken from what he did. This was the answer I was searching for. Not surprisingly, I never recieved one.  
His emotionless stare was the only reply. I understood: he had no weaknesses, no memories, nothing I could use against him in a duel of minds. My body is now maimed and battered. Wits are the only weapon I can use, and this will not last long.  
All inside of me is giving in to madness. Insanity surrounds me, whispers to me.  
I feel so cold.  
He is as dead as I am. Rotting. Decomposing. Passing away.  
He tore me apart, shattered as if I were a glass figurine. And now, he is creating me once again, gathering the pieces and forming them into a new shape.  
I was burned for thousands of times, felt the eyes bursting, the hot whites streaming down my cheeks like tears made of flame. Hair burnt swiftly, and then, the body, to the bare bone, to dust, to dirt. For dirt I am, but a living dirt. It was only a spell, conjured suffering. It left no mark.  
The knives did.  
Memories are worse than scars.  
I feel so cold.  
He inflicts pain with precision, even with care. The suffering he gives is white. White, unlike the red pain of battle. I know what it is to be buried alive. I know what it is to be hanged - choking, fighting desperately for air, reaching to the rope around your neck, then to your own throat, hoping that you will have enough time to rip it and breathe at last. But there is no time, not a second left. The bones break. It is the end, for the hanged one. It was just a beginning for myself.  
I am learning. Sometimes... even admiring his craft.  
I feel so cold.  
There are brief moments of understanding. Understanding the immortality of the beings He kept in those huge, glass jars. Understanding... death itself. I saw Khalid, and the remains of him. And realised I was looking at meat, for meat he was, undergoing the same things: blades, fire, cold, poison. "Do you see?", He asked. I did. I still do.  
I saw Minsc, the poor madman, the despicable fool, struggling as the golems held him. First threathening, then roaring... howling at the end. Dynaheir was looking at me, dying. My eyes could as well be His, for I did not know what I was looking at. Or maybe I was: no emotions, no feelings to blur the sight. Just facts. Then I started to scream, just like Minsc did before, writhing with pain. The moment of clarity passed, leaving only fear and suffering.  
I feel so cold.  
I used to say that, wounded. Long ago, a year, a day, a thousand years, an hour. I knew nothing about pain. Today I know everything.  
Screaming meat, suffering meat, Imoen, myself. Thinking meat - a strange concept of the gods. A little pain and the mind fails, giving in to madness.  
I feel so cold.  
Just once more, I think. Once or twice. A moment, and I shall become like Him. I shall understand. Another moment of consciousness between the first struck of pain and another, and I shall understand.  
So much to discover, so much to learn.  
And so I wait. I am shivering, a leaf in the gale, a spiders web in the wind. Nothing warm here.


	3. Fragments

Fragments

_"These fragments I have shored against my ruins"_  
T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"

I remember.  
Ah, my raven, the theatre! You saw one, and - alas, poor fool! - you might think you saw them all. No! Those are true temples of all Arts, and each has a spirit of it's own. The dreams of a young actress before entering the stage for the first time, her grief and bitterness decades after, when she still plays insignificant parts, while her charms disappear, and her eagerness dies in a slow and painful way! The pride of a dramatist, when they applaud those who brought his ink and paper to life! These emotions stay within the walls, the spirits of those who have been still preform on the stage made of shadows. All that has been - it is still there.  
I remember. Memories give strength to those who lack it. They keep the reality intact, keep it from crumbling. From decaying. From fading into oblivion. T'is the only way we can protect what we recall, is it not, my raven?  
I remember. 'Twas my first play, in the far Sigil. After my fellow said 'and his fancy queen', the actors left, all but me. I had a song to sing, yet, a play to finish, a tear to bring to many an eye. I took my harp and started to sing, the bells on my hat - a jester's hat, for a jester I was playing - accompanying the slow, soft melody. And so, I sang.

'_When that I was but a little tiny boy,  
With hey, and ho, the wind and the rain,  
A foolish thing was but a toy,  
For the rain it raineth everyday..._'

Eye to eye with the audience, I stood, and realised that it was the greatest of glories, the most pleasant of pleasures.

_A great while ago the world began,_

_With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain,_

_But that's all one, our play is done,_

_And we'll strive to please you everyday...'_

I remember, the haze of battle, the lust for blood. The way my weapons sang in the air, their funeral laments, their chansons, their promises of eternal glory. What joy it was to spin with two swords in the fanciest of ways, how grand it was to laugh and sing during a duel! I remember my first kill. After the event, I stood there, watching the blood sink into the ground. 'Twas then that I realised that death and destruction were inevitable. 'Twas then that I embraced them, letting Chaos to guide my blade. A battlefield is a theatre, as well! The world is a theatre!  
I remember love. I remember the first woman whose favour I won. Is it not strange, my raven, that we recall insignificant things? Her laughter, the colour of her scarf, the rose medallion she was always wearing. Of course, there was not only one. Many a lady has fallen to this sparrow's charms, I admit! Yet, each and every of them I recall. I loved, my raven, I loved every time I held a woman in my arms. Their hearts were no mere toys! They call me a fellow with the roving eye. T'is a lie: it is not my eye that went a roving. No, it is fire that burns out so fast, it is love what endures for a breath. Everything fades. Is dust not our ultimate destiny?  
I remember fleeing from Sigil, a dance on the knife's edge, mind and body in a curious union, trying to delay the inevitable. I remember times before our infamous escape, living in a city where everything changed, in a quintessence of Chaos itself. What was a temple, could become an inn within moments, who was a king, could become a beggar, who was happy, could loose his luck in time no longer than a time no longer than a heartbeat.  
I remember Raelis. I remember Aerie.  
I remember you, child of Bhaal, a halfbreed born to kill, beaming with power, striking your enemies without remorse. You, an avatar of power itself, an illustration of what I believe in: Doom!  
I remember a crippled veteran, thrown out of a tavern, landing inches away from the gutter. Not a single gold piece, this poor man had, only his past glory and the scars that war left on him. I remember the look in his eyes, a loss so deep that even I failed to find words to describe them, failed to find rhymes to close this gaze in, failed to find a melody that would capture his grief and misfortune. Today, I understand. In a way, I am like he was.  
'I am what you shall be, what you are, I have been'  
T'is the only thing I have now, memory. Some fragments shored against my ruins.  
They say that no spell can cure the one that was touched by the fire of a black dragon. Aerie's chants saved my life. She is the last thing I saw, last thing I shall ever see, fighting her tears and calling Baervan for help. She saved my life.  
And only that she managed to save. I am blind now, my raven, the lights of the world quenched once and for all, I am voiceless, my raven, when so many chansons left unsung, and I am marred, my raven... The fire left it's marks, made the bard unable to sing, the actor unable to speak, the artist unable to see.  
I am no longer a guard of Doom. I became it's portrait.


	4. A Heap of Broken Images

A Heap Of Broken Images

_"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images "  
_T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"

_"Sarevok keeps mostly to himself, but at odd moments you can see him staring in your direction, his face an emotionless mask. Part of you wonders if your brutal half-brother ponders what might have been..."_  
Sarevok's Biography

Alive.  
I can taste wine, wield a weapon, embrace a woman. I can grasp the hilt of my sword, swing it's blade, hear it's chant while it cuts through the air. I can fight, feel tiredness, pain, feel anything else than hatred, my only companion in the Abyss. I can kill - and this ability always gave me the greatest of satisfactions.  
Alive! Is that not the meaning of every battle cry ever exclaimed? The warriors shout the names of their Gods, their countries, their kin. Many words, with one meaning: I am here! I have the power to oppose death itself!  
Alive! And capable to take a life. Alive, with blood that boils, with hands that crush, shatter, destroy. Strength! Living, not lingering. At last!  
Such power. What differs a murderer from a god? We are equal in the eyes of victims, widened with fear. Would they not burn offerings at our altars, if that could save their lives? Do they not toss everything they have before our feet? Do they not beg for mercy? Do they not... pray for it?  
I remember you, standing over my dying body. Your eyes were flaming, your weapon was bloodied. What you were, then? Not only my greatest foe. Not only the one that opposed me and won. You were what I was meant to be. The greatest of Children, a halfbreed with the eyes of the Slayer. I saw him in you, then, long before you realised what he was. What you are, and what you shall be.  
The dread glory is yours. The power is yours. The Throne is yours for the taking, as well. I killed and shall kill under your leadership. I will holler your name on every battlefield. My troops will fight and die for you, bearing your banners. They shall lift them up, into the air, chanting of your deeds. They shall destroy anything that will dare to oppose us. What will give them such power? My leadership. My leadership and your guidance.  
You have ascended. All the time, it was you.  
Once, you asked how did I manage to survive on the streets before Rieltar found me. I called you a fool for that, then, and I would do it for the second time if you inquired again. Was the answer not obvious? Was it not right before your eyes? Was it not your own method to keep yourself alive? As a child, I did what you did as an adult. I fought. Years after, I still thought of myself as a stray mongrel, a fighter with no other destiny to fulfill than to serve the Iron Throne, and my foster father. Then... came knowledge. Power followed.  
I dreamt! And a great dream it was. A dream of battles, a dream of dark glory, of fear, of power beyond equal! A dream of becoming the new Lord of Murder! People would fear me and salute me, they would beg for my help in the haze of battle, they would cry my name when taking lives. Every drop of blood spilled would be mine sacrifice, every dying breath a hymn for my glory, every life taken - a prayer to me! I dreamt!  
In the end, it is you who has it all.  
The images I created are broken. The stone effigy of myself is crumbling. Bah! I should have known better. Only the names change. Fate stays the same.  
Dear sibling... your cause is the new Iron Throne.  
And you are the new Rieltar.


	5. A Game Of Chess

A Game Of Chess

_"And we shall play a game of chess,  
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door"_

T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"

In Kara - Tur, we call it go. Ah, my friend, you should see the Gambling Houses of my homeland. Well - adorned buildings, they are, with figurines of marble and greenstone, with finest silks on the walls and bright - coloured carpets on the floor. The drinks are served by women of rare, fragile beauty, unknown by the western men. Here we gathered, if we wanted to gamble. Many a man lost his home and wealth in a game of dice or three cups. There were, however, other players there, usually elder men, who would sit upon a board, facing each other. They would move black and white marbles, gazing at each other and seemed to give it a lot of thought. When my noble father finally explained to me what the game was about, I was amazed by the wisdom closed in marble figurines and a board. It seemed that a game could teach, as well.  
The Northerners call it hnefatavl, we, as afore said, call it go. You, western men, called it chess. A fitting name, this, resembling a hiss of a snake, for it takes a snake to win. The games are different from each other, yet, they test one thing - mind.  
My tutor, Ryu, tried to train me both in martial and mental disciplines, so when I asked him to teach how to play go, he obliged. I would fight him for hours, imagining that I am a great daimyo, the marbles are armies, and the board is a bloody battlefield.  
I have studied many a writing of warfare, and was aware that things would be different if the pawns recieved swords and shields, if they had blood in their veins and a heart inside them. Marbles do not tire nor fear. Marbles do not have wills of their own.  
Some people, however, refuse to notice this fact.  
They use living creatures as their pawns. They do not ignore the fact that their marbles are made of flesh and blood, no! They see it, too. They predict what the marbles will do. How they will react.  
Ryu - sensei told me a story of a brave warrior of Kara - Tur, who once opposed his master, Toshiro. He was sent to kill a wandering ronin named Yasuo, who somehow wronged Toshiro. The ronin awoke, hearing the footsteps of his future killer, and went to meet him. He greeted the brave warrior like he would greet his brother, and asked why was he here. 'I am here for your life', said the warrior. Yasuo smiled peacefully and spoke. He told the samurai his tale, the story of a bitter, banished man, stranger everywhere, who met Toshiro on his way. His only fault was that he refused to amuse Toshiro and his drunken men as a jester. Although they rushed at the ronin, he managed to run away, leaving many a man bloodied and wounded.  
The samurai was speachless. When he drew his katana out, Yasuo closed his eyes and prepared to meet death... yet, it was not his life taken by the sharp, well - crafted blade. Toshiro's unnamed servant commited seppuku out of shame. He served a man whose drunken ways were a disgrace, and who would humiliate a warrior just for fun.  
'My master has no honour', he whispered before collapsing on the floor, bleeding.  
My dearest friend, my comrade in arms, bond by fate and blood we spilled together.  
If the geas would not control me, I would do the same.


End file.
